The
closest to winter in my tropical homeland is a rare hailstorm. When
lashed by such weather in the open, say in the farm, on the sea or
any other unsheltered place, the exposure leaves human beings
shivering with the cold. Hence we say that only those trapped in a
hail know the fangs of biting cold!

I
have pretty much been exposed to different degrees of coldness at
various times: the chilly wind of poverty blowing strong with
disease, starvation, neglect and the shame of living with thugs and
critters such as roaches, mice and rats. Life in our tropics is
muggy, frowsy, uncreative and intolerant of contrary ideas. Not even
the abundant sunshine has been good at staving off the chills, the
muck and mire of our frosty poverty.

I
grew up in a large family. Because Mother was always bringing in
waifs, much to Father’s annoyance, we had to cope with fifteen
or more people at home. We lived in a cramped and deplorable space
and slept like baboons on the floor, one on top of another. Since I
slept flexing my muscles violently like a kick-boxer, I was the only
one with much room to myself even though that meant being shunted
into a tight corner where no one else wanted to be.

We
had a common pot of water. We drank from the same cup and ate from
the same plate and spoons. It is a miracle none of us died from the
contagious diseases that rampantly wasted our community. We had one
soap dish and, in our wretchedness, shared one towel.

Searing
as our misery was, poverty bonded us into a tough family even when
hunger fluttered violently in our stomachs like a beheaded chicken.
We often had food fights, but could also ride any wave so long as we
worked together. With sharp machetes we chopped down pristine
forests, hollering and whooping work songs all the while. We stared
down animals in the wild, and took their carcasses for meat.

Living
in abject poverty is a grimly horrendous experience. It means
gratuitous groveling, fear, grief, groans, guilt and resentment. It
means stinking like a skunk after working in a warm and humid
atmosphere, sweat pouring from every pore yet being unable to bathe
with soap. It means living with the gut-wrenching tyranny and
spectacle of people cynically destroying their people over a mere
morsel and being brutally penalized for speaking out against the
establishment.

Thorns
spiked our bare feet and hands and sometimes due to carelessness and
youthful exuberance, we slashed ourselves with knives in the course
of bushwhacking. Our parents bound our wounds with barks, roots and
herbs. Sometimes, though, someone came down with tetanus and was
rushed on a bicycle to an under-equipped clinic thirty miles away.
But neither the lockjaws nor the ever present threat of death drowned
our spirits.

When
rich kids picked on us, we clawed them hard enough that they stopped
bothering us. Survival was for the fittest, and labors that fatigued
even adults made us fit. Yet the hardship clothed us with enduring
insights, made us sensitive to the plight of those gnarled like us by
poverty, and helped us walk not by sight but by faith as we trudged
through the peculiar humiliations in our jungle.

Because
of these horrific experiences, “My soul has grown deep like the
rivers,” to borrow a line from Langston Hughes’ The
Negro Speaks of Rivers.
I have known the anguish of living without the basic necessities of
life, poverty of leadership in a failed state, and (before my
conversion) the abject destitution of a religion without the power of
the priesthood.

But
to soften the hurt, poverty taught me to be a good servant, something
ignorantly scoffed at in my country. It taught me humility, too. Its
fires purged me of the dross of haughtiness and pride and thereby
prepared me to receive the gospel. Also, it taught me patience that,
though bitter as some say, comes with rewardingly sweet fruits.

Although
by the time the missionaries contacted me I had by rugged
determination managed to outwit poverty, the hard knocks it burned
into me stayed long enough to help me discern the redeeming power of
the atonement when I received the missionary discussions. By that
time I had become a college professor earning enough to live decently
even though I was surrounded by a sea of abject poverty. Our home had
modern amenities and my three children at the time had rooms to
themselves — a far cry from the deprivations of my own
childhood.

Investigating
the Church, I discerned true leadership that is utterly lacking in my
country. This struck a sympathetic chord because it was so desirable.
Instead of hard-eyed crocodile meanness where everyone ate up
everyone else, I saw hands and hearts of people who, in spite of
their own challenges, were willing to make a difference in the lives
of others beset by sorrow and misery.

It
was the Tree of Life, and I of course wanted it for myself, my family
and society. With that desire began a journey. That journey has
brought me wholeness. From it I have come in contact with total
strangers from whom I have learned more than I ever did in college
and graduate school. In the course of this I have learned things of
inestimable value, things of eternal consequence.

The
journey has not been easy, but even when displaced, I met people with
whom I have absolutely no kinship but who have shared their shelter
and bread with me and my family in ways words cannot wholly express.
From these folks I have learned the power of kindness that President
George Albert Smith said “can soften hearts and encourage
others to live righteously.”

A
fortnight back, I received a call from missionaries to drive them to
Statesville, North Carolina, for a transfer meeting. I had the time
and a truck, but to go sixty-five miles outside my usual routes would
have affected my family's tight budget and I told them so. I added I
would try to figure out what to do and call them back if I succeeded.

I
prayerfully placed a call to a family that early morning and
explained my situation. The family fueled the truck and with a
grateful heart I took the appreciative missionaries for their
appointment. On the way my passengers wanted to know how I worked the
magic.

As
I shared the information with them, they in turn narrated how the
week before the family that had fueled my truck had bought a van for
a new convert family of ten who could not afford to attend church
meetings if no one offered them a ride. Though pleasantly surprised,
it was not shocking because these succoring folks were the ones who
snatched me and my family from a lion’s mouth and gave us back
our lives.

In
this season of thanksgiving, my heart turns to those who sanctify the
Lord in their hearts, lift the forlorn with compassion and hope, and
give them reason to live.

Imo Ben Eshiet was born in Port Harcourt, Nigeria. Raised in his village, Uruk Enung, and at
several cities in his country including Nsukka, Enugu, Umuahia, Eket and Calabar, Eshiet is a
detribalized Nigerian. Although he was extensively exposed to Western education right from
childhood in his country where he obtained a PhD in English and Literary Studies from the
University of Calabar, he is well nurtured in African history, politics, culture and traditions.

Imo is currently a teacher in the high priests group in the Summit Ward of the Greensboro North
Carolina Stake.